


All Your Metal Armor

by surreallis



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Non-Graphic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surreallis/pseuds/surreallis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking time to breathe after the battle is won. This thing between them is off and on and somehow very dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Your Metal Armor

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are a million fics about decompressing after the Avengers movie. But it's a great way to figure out how you're going to write the characters, right? And more fic is always good.

She is accustomed to living without breath. This is the life she has chosen, was thrust into; living without the time to process the action. Moving without the time to just stand and take a breath.

After the particularly big operations though, she sometimes has no choice. 

She expects downtime once she and Clint drive away from the Avengers. She hasn't quite decided what she wants to do, because SHIELD still has 'tests' for Clint and she's been through them too many times to walk away without waiting for him. 

She isn't really surprised when, once those tests are over, Fury shows up and gives her a digital itinerary card for her shortly-upcoming vacation. In fact, he gives her two, and then he sets Clint's already-packed bag next to her, and his eyes give her that look. 

The one that says: _Watch him_.

She says nothing, because even though she knows this thing between Clint and her, it's not a secret, she still doesn't like expressing it to others. Even to Fury. It feels too much like exposure. 

Lucky for her, Fury understands her more than she likes.

"Take the time," Fury says, in his typical no-nonsense tone. "You know the drill."

She stares at him.

"It's non-negotiable," he orders.

She packs a bag.

\+ + 

SHIELD has hidey holes all over the globe. Some are touchstones, caches of weapons, equipment, man power. Some are just for the intricate work of putting agents back together again when they've been splintered into pieces. 

Clint is already on the plane when she boards. The pilots are fully vetted SHIELD, but she is always a bit wary. Old habits die hard, and, frankly, she'd never willingly kill them anyway. Those habits have saved her more than once.

She sits next to him, and he looks at her tiredly, and there is warmth. Relief on her part. Regret, because he'd been so up after the battle, finally avenged when Thor led Loki away in chains. It takes some time though, to feel the full effects.

"Okay?" she asks. 

"No," he says, but with a tone. 

One that makes her smile. Just slightly.

"Bring your swimsuit?" he asks. 

"No," she says, but with a slightly different tone. 

One that makes him smile. 

Then they're taking off and they're quiet, and this is one of the things she loves about Clint. That he can be silent. That they can exist together, quietly, and not talk and it is not awkward or tense or any of the things that she feels with other people when conversations end. 

He leans back into the seat, closing his eyes. 

She listens to him breathe.

\+ +

She has been to the island only once before. After a Russian operation that had hit too close to home. It had been the dead of winter and her bones had nearly frozen, and Fury had sent her here to recuperate. 

Yellow sun and blue sea. Trees with thick, lush tops that bend in the warm breezes. White sand and green grass. A blessed lack of people. 

There is one guide, simple in appearance, likely complicated in skill set, who drops them off by boat on the beach and tells them he will be back once a day to drop off food. Then he disappears and they are alone and if there is a God, then bless Nick Fury for his all-knowing instincts about people.

The island is small and isolated and very, very empty. One house with many rooms, a ground floor that opens up directly into the sea air. No screens or glass to keep it all out. There is a big padded chaise there, on the ground floor, where she slept last time. She puts her bag there again.

Clint watches her and then looks around, and she nods toward the stairs. "There are rooms upstairs."

He glances toward the stairs and then puts his bag on another couch, across from her. She smiles faintly. 

They are on and off and have been since day one. On because they connect. Because she trusts him more than any other. Because his stare strips her down and makes her shiver.

Off because they do not have jobs that are conducive to dating. Because saying 'I love you' is useless. Because she cannot tolerate that sort of intimacy and expectation.

It's complicated. 

"What are we supposed to do for two weeks?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Heal."

His gaze shifts toward her then, and she walks away. Her injuries are well on their way to gone. The stiffness still lingering but nothing worthy of island treatment. 

Clint on the other hand...

"So," he says. "I'm your mission then?"

"It's not like that." She talks quietly. Somehow her guard always seems to fall around him. 

He sits on the couch he's chosen as a bed. "Nat," he says, even more quietly. And the way he's able to break her down with just her name is distressing.

She sits next to him. "I know what it's like," she says. "It's just a safe guard."

"They said I was clean now."

"And you are," she insists. "But it's not that easy. You know this. You saw me go through it."

He leans over his knees, scrubs tiredly at his face. "It's different from the other side."

"Yes," she agrees.

After a silent pause, he straightens again. "Okay," he says. "So, what should I expect?"

"I don't know," she says, honestly. "It's different for everyone."

"Great."

She smiles, and they sit. Not talking for a while.

The breeze blows in, warm and soothing. The surf is a constant rhythm. 

"Would you have killed me?" he asks suddenly. "If you'd had to?"

She cannot answer over the lead in her heart. He knows the answer to that question, and she does too. She does not want to voice it.

"Nat," he prods, with that way he has. That way that always works.

"You know I would have. I... would."

She understands too the way he relaxes at that. The relief. The idea that if something bad happens at least the damage will be contained. 

The same relief she felt the day he turned her. He does so much with so little, and it's always been a mystery to her. 

_"You don't have to hurt anyone anymore."_

And that had been it. A novel idea that had seemingly never really occurred to her. But he'd put it so simply, and it had gotten through. She could make a choice. It was never too late...

_You don't have to hurt anyone..._

Relief.

Containment.

Freedom.

"I'm hungry," he says.

She laughs.

\+ +

He sleeps with deep, rhythmic breaths. She listens to him from her own bed. The windows and doors are still thrown wide to the night air. There is no one to intrude. Not for miles. The surf is lulling.

But for all of that, she still exists on that sharp edge of wariness. It takes her a few weeks to settle down. Slowly, the armor peels away from her, letting her breathe again. Slowly it falls away, letting her relax and become normal. Well... normal for her. 

Her first instinct is always to go to ground. Find a rabbit hole and crawl inside it. Earth on all sides so no one can sneak up on her. They wouldn't even know she was there. But it's a double-edged sword, because once she's in there she can't keep her mind still. She feels trapped. She needs to see in all directions. She needs to be ready.

There is no place she feels truly safe.

And that, sadly, is where her comfort lies. 

\+ +

When she wakes, she is on edge. She stiffens and waits, listening. It is still dark, but the moonlight is enough. The surf is ever present, and slow.

She hears Clint breathing. In a bad way. When she looks, he is sitting up on his couch in T-shirt and shorts, his head in his hands, and she knows, instantly, what it is. 

She gets up and walks quietly to him. 

He knows she's there, even in the pain. "Fuck," he says, his voice harsh through gritted teeth. "My head hurts." The muscles in his arms are tense and shaking. "Fucking Loki."

She lowers herself in front of him and slides her fingers around his thick wrist. "It isn't Loki's fault," she says. "It's from SHIELD's testing."

He looks at her through one eye, his expression a grimace. "The cure is worse than the disease?"

"Yes. Something like that."

"It sucks," he says, vehemently. 

"Did they give you something?"

"No."

She goes to her bag, gets the pills. The ones she never takes unless she has to. Unless she might go mad from the pain. Unless she has someone watching her back so she can go out safely.

He takes them from her without question and swallows them. 

"They should have given you something," she mutters. 

He breathes hard, in and out. In again. Out. She can hear it rushing inside of him. "How long does this go on?" he demands.

"A few days," she says.

He makes a sound of frustration, but she knows it's a best case scenario. 

"Lie down," she orders, and she pushes him back, pulls his hands from his head, and somehow finds her fingers entangled in his hair. He does as she commands though, and his forehead is hot against her palm. She goes to pull her hand away and his own closes over it. 

His eyes are shut. He doesn't look at her, but he holds her there. The pills will take some time to kick in. When they do, he'll be out cold. 

She slides onto the couch beside him, and he releases her hand. 

"It's alright," she says, but he doesn't respond, and so she lies there next to him, quietly, and he breathes his hard breaths and grits his teeth and she feels the pain radiating off of him in waves.

Eventually, he starts to relax. He exhales slower and slower. He sleeps.

She stays where she is and brushes the hair from his face. Safe now.

Eventually, she sleeps too.

\+ +

She wakes suddenly again, but without moving, without startling. She knows instantly, without opening her eyes, that it is morning and the sun is shining. She feels, too, fingers sliding the hair from her eyes. 

She opens them. 

"Those pills were awesome," he says. The stress is gone from his face. He looks himself again. 

She gives him a faint smile, relaxes a bit. He stops touching her face, but he rests his hand on her hip. They can do this too, be intimate without it leading anywhere. 

And sometimes they can't.

She holds his gaze and his uplifted demeanor starts to fade. The physical pain is gone for now. But the weight of his own ledger is settling down. 

"I remember nearly everything," he says, quietly. 

And she can tell him not to. She can tell him to stop. But it doesn't work that way. If only it did...

"We all know the risks of working for SHIELD," she says. And they do. From Fury himself to the computer techs who work for salary.

She sees him remembering, trying to count the ones he put down. "It doesn't matter that they knew the risks," he says, voice tight.

"No," she says. She knows. "It doesn't make it better."

She doesn't want to quote the company line at him. Doesn't want to swarm him with platitudes that she knows won't help. This is not the first time he has taken lives he regrets. And she knows that regardless of his mental state, he considers himself fully responsible. She knows because that's how she would feel. Has felt...

The pain is back in his eyes now. Not the same as last night, but worse. Because the headaches will eventually go away. This never will.

And then she can't help it. She slips her hand up to touch him. His jaw is rough with morning beard, and the muscles underneath the skin are tense and flexing. 

His gaze meets hers. "Live with it, huh?" 

She nods slowly. "Someone has to."

And it might as well be them. They're already damned.

He takes a long, slow breath and leans closer to her, his hand sliding against the small of her back, under the cropped cotton shirt she wears for sleep. It is startling in a familiar way. She has armor that protects her, even when naked, but when he touches her it is always a shock. It is always like she exists, open and vulnerable, for him. 

His breath stirs her hair on her forehead and he shifts until she can no longer look into his eyes without glancing up. When she does, his eyes are closed and he is awake but trying to settle. Her hand ends up pressed against his chest. 

His fingertips graze back and forth on her bare back, and she feels the rough, ruined skin on the inside of his fingers. 

He can shoot his bow with expert proficiency with either hand, but he prefers the left. He wears guards, but it doesn't matter. The ideal conditions in which to shoot a bow rarely present themselves to him. His fingers and his forearms are scraped, cut and peeled raw time and time again. 

More than once she has fought at his back while he drew his bowstring endlessly, unguarded, until his fingers were cut through to the bone. Until his blood soaked the string and misted the air with each vibration. Until she tasted the copper tang of it in the back of her throat and thought: _We are inside of each other now._

The calluses and the scars only get harder. The feel of them on her skin only makes her feel barer. 

She has felt them _everywhere_ on her body and the sensation is tied to feelings that are immense.

She slept with a colonel in Bangkok once who had similar scars. It had thrown her in a way that made her angry. She hadn't known until she'd been naked with him, and then the shock of it had left her gasping for breath and saying Clint's name in her head as the colonel moved inside of her. 

It had left her with the desire to climb out of bed and call Clint immediately just to rail at him furiously and order him to _get out of her goddamn head._

Which would have been useless, of course, because she's the one who put him there. Not SHIELD or Loki or any of the other nefarious mind-fuckers in the world. 

Her.

And him.

She sucks in a breath as his fingers move around her side and rest on her waist. He exhales in turn, maybe heavier than usual. 

She can feel his heart beating against her fingers where her hand is pressed to his chest. 

"Nat," he says, in a voice that is nearly a groan. Nearly not there. And his scarred fingers slide upwards, over her ribs, slowly. Until his wrist brushes her bare breast, and her breath catches in her lungs. 

If he kisses her, she'll break. She'll slide her fingers into his hair and pull him over her, and then they'll be tangled for two weeks. Again. 

Lost.

He shifts until his forehead is close to hers. His mouth hovering above hers. His breath tickling her lips. 

He hesitates. 

Because each time they do this it gets harder and harder to walk away. Harder to fit themselves into the lives they lead. Harder to commit to the job.

Just harder.

She swallows and breathes a little of herself back at him. She realizes she has a handful of his T-shirt in her fist. And she thinks _Oh, fuck it._ Because it's been a while now, and Loki nearly took him away from her and, even worse, nearly forced her to take him out herself. Because the strings between them are pulling her so hard that it feels like they're wrapped around her bones. Because she's just tired. And just fuck it.

She pulls him toward her until their mouths meet, and then she slides her hand around the nape of his neck, and he doesn't hesitate again. He pushes his weight down on her and his tongue slides against hers, and then they're shifting and wrestling until his hips are between her legs and his mouth is wet against her neck. 

And then it's just whispers and breaths and the sound of their mouths on each other, and she just really wants him inside of her. 

She pulls at his clothes, his arms, his back, and he just moves in his methodical, steady way, his mouth taking the breath from her lungs, his hands scraping her skin with their calluses and their scars. 

When he's finally _there_ and his breath is hard and fast in her ear, she feels suspended in space for a while. The sea air smells sweet and her heart is racing toward something, and it's hard to breathe. 

She holds him tight enough to make him grunt when she comes. He's silent when he follows.

After, all she hears is the surf and the wind in the trees and her own blood rushing through her veins.

\+ +

He tries fishing later, out on a long pier built along a tendril of exposed rocks. She watches him from the shade of the beach where she sits and takes deep breaths and tries to meditate. She tries to find her center.

Her armor hasn't fallen away enough yet though, and she has trouble getting in. 

She isn't sure what this is, between the two of them. She always thinks she knows, during those off times. She's always sure it is just their thing and that eventually it will end just as they want it to. 

But the weight of it is something she senses with a sort of dread. Life has taught her that to be happy is to invite disaster, and she's not yet seen anything to disavow her of that notion. It seems smart to heed that warning.

But she cannot be smart where Clint is concerned. He is a drive in her that she cannot contain. 

As she watches in the heat of late afternoon, he yanks his fishing line from the water and sets the pole down. Then he strips off and dives into the sea. When he surfaces, he treads water and swims a bit, back and forth. 

She gets up and walks down the pier. He's going to be alright because SHIELD knows what its doing. He's going to be alright because she's been through this and she knows. He's going to be alright because... he has to be. 

Because she has to be.

He grins at her from the water as she stops in front of him and lifts one eyebrow. The wooden planks of the pier rise and fall under her feet. 

"Do you want me to bring your bow out?" she teases. "Maybe you can shoot the fish better than you can catch them."

He gives her a wry look and then lifts his hand. "Come in," he says. His eyes are blue sea and sunny glitter. 

"I didn't bring my swimming suit," she reminds him. She can't quite hide the smile on her lips.

"I know," he says. "Why would you?"

It's like stripping more armor off as she unwinds the sarong around her waist, peels the tank top off her shoulders. The sun is suddenly hot against her skin. 

"Is it cold?" she asks.

"Freezing," he answers. His gaze is a challenge.

She pauses there, looking at him in the water. He holds her gaze, holds up his hand a second time. "Come in," he says again. "Come in, Nat." His voice is quieter, more still.

So she dives into the cold and finds his warmth.

Both take her breath away.

~end~


End file.
